The Pit
by Faith360
Summary: Set in the Avernum/Exile games. An exploration of the thoughts of the four people exiled to Avernum in the beginning of the first game. Just a fun exercise in style and voice.
1. Zephyr

So...I tried playing Avernum, both the original and the reboot...couldn't get past the gameplay in the first one, and the reboot had such crappy dialogue boxes when the original had a great story. I just couldn't get into it. I wanted to, because the story was interesting, but alas. Said interesting story spawned this: the first-person tale of my four Avernum characters after they get thrown into the pit.

This was really an experiment in style: I tried some serious present-tense narration with first-person POV, in addition to creating four separate characters who (I hope) have their own voices, while still keeping with the same style. Let me know what you think.

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Zephyr<strong>

You are dead – it's quite simple, really. For all intents and purposes, you no longer exist. Even if you did exist, it's desperately dark, and you can't see yourself, so really, how do you know you're actually there?

Perhaps you know from the smell – there is blood, damp air, and perhaps a dead animal. You smell sweat, stagnant water, and … mushroom soup?

The home-like smell of mushroom soup is ruined by the stench of mold and man-sweat. And you know it's man sweat – one of those beefy, over-muscled, small-brained soldiers, looking down on you with beady, glazed eyes, whiskey on their breath…

You're sure of this when you hear the hiss of a weapon being drawn, perhaps somewhere to the left of you. But it isn't the smooth _ssshhhh_ you're used to – it is a rough, gargling sound. A crude dagger, perhaps.

There are footsteps. Earth and sky, are you about to be _mugged_? The footsteps stumble, and a man grunts quietly in pain. Good. Perhaps he'll fall on his blade and save you the trouble.

For it will cause you an enormous amount of trouble – you were an archer in the imperial army, and you're fair with a javelin, but you are unarmed. You are stringy and lean, young, with a mop of straw-blond hair and awkward limbs. Perhaps you could wield a dagger well enough, but you'd grip it too tight, or you'd sweat so much it fell out of your hand, and this is assuming you could even wrest it away from your attacker –

Focus. You snap back when you hear someone cursing loudly – you think it's a woman, but it's very unladylike language. You doubt you've even heard one of the army whores say such things, and they'll say anything for a fistful of silvers.

The loud proclamations only distract you for a moment. Very suddenly, you realize that the groaning man is somewhere to your right, and that bothers you because …. because whoever had the weapon is on the left.

It's like you've been trapped: trapped in a dark, vague world with nothing but smell and sound. You can't feel the air, or the ground beneath you, or the vibrations the sounds make as they ripple through you. But when you realize you are still in danger, you sit up, and everything comes back in a rush. The taste of mold. The steady clink of water dripping. Dirt on your skin. Stagnant, moist air, pressing in on you, smothering, like a cloud of smoke, invisible poison, crushing your lungs….

Rock. You can _sense it_. It's below you. It's above you. It is around you.

You're in pain, and it's not a big deal, but you don't even register it, because there is rock _everywhere_, on the fringes of your consciousness even when you can't see it, and it will _always_ be there. You wonder if your skin will turn a ghastly shade – if you start to glow like a strange fungus, you swear you'll … well, you don't know you what you'll do. You've never had the courage to do much of anything.

But you're here, anyway.

The thing that scares you the most about Avernum is that the rock is always there – it bears down on you, and you miss the heat of the sun.


	2. Liam

**Liam**

When you get there, your first response, as always, is to scream – you scream as loud as you can, cursing at the Empire above that surely can't hear you. You don't care – anger is all you have left. You have lost _everything_: family, home, freedom.

But the loss you feel most keenly is hope, and you know you'll never get it back again.

You crumble to the ground, lying on your back. You can't see the rock above you. You wonder if that's a good thing. You wish you could, for a moment – you wish you could see the rock, soaring above your head, and you entertain the idea of creating your own sky, with crystals that glow and shimmer, drawings and art, lanterns swaying, star-like gems embedded in the earth…

Only it wouldn't be that way. The lanterns would not sway because there is no breeze. The caverns grow darker as they stretch up, and nothing can give them that sweet blue of the night. Even in the night, the surface was not this dark.

Star-_like_. You snort. You want _stars_.

Determination rises in you. It occurs to you that everyone has tried, that no one has ever escaped Avernum – you stare up at the rock and think that you like it, a little. It's a friendly rock. Always there. Constant – the ground beneath your feet and above your head.

You've never believed in 'impossible'. And you miss the stars.


	3. Addan

**Addan**

You haven't given up – you've just…changed direction.

And it can't be all that bad, anyway – you're free, after all. The Empire has no sway here, save for who goes in. And surely, there'd be some use for your magic. You'd have plenty of work, and you wouldn't have to scurry around behind the Empire's back. You're a free man.

You try to stand, and you manage a few shambling steps, but you fall, groaning. You're weak. You used too much magic in prison – you're too kind, Ella always says. It's why you've always been running, why you've never been good at it, why you were caught. You care too much.

The thought of Ella, despite her prickly disposition and glaring eyes, raises doubt in you. You'll never see her again. She'll pretend not to care, but when she's working there is worry in her eyes, while her hands are busy her mind has nothing to do but think. You worry her, with your running and hiding, with your magic. "You couldn't just stop, could you?" But she's always known the answer. You never could. The village tried to protect you, you've done so much for them, but it wasn't enough. What was done was done.

Ella will live – she will survive. Thrive, even. Ella is strong. She'll be better off without, you, and it's not like you were still … she's made it clear. It's been years since Ella has looked at you, really looked at you. Your life with her was already over.

This thought should put you on solid ground, and it does, but your reality is shaken again by the thought of a small, round face with green eyes.

You are positive that the boy is yours, no matter what Ella says. She is fortunate that he looks enough like her, green eyes like her mother's and unruly sandy hair. But there is no denying the spark in him – you'd never spoken to her about it, about him, and she'd never wanted to, but she couldn't deny you when you left her instructions to keep his magic hidden. The risk is too much. She only nods.

The thought of your son, of a four-year-old boy with green eyes that betray an irrepressible spirit, so much like Ella's, is too much to bear.

You think of climbing trees, of his little, stubby hands grabbing onto branches, the way his tongue protrudes from his lip in concentration, how he laughs when he reaches the top, and you, standing at the bottom, trying not to look worried, while Ella watches from the window, pretending like she isn't, either.

You miss that little boy in the tree. There is nothing more important.


	4. Reyna

Yes, I realize that this one might not be entirely realistic. Let's just suspend our disbelief for a moment, shall we?

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><p><strong>Reyna<strong>

You don't know. That is the answer to every question.

More importantly, you don't care.

Your responses are automatic – you hear movement, and you draw your dagger. You managed to keep a rough one on you in prison, because the guards didn't like to touch you. When they looked at you all they could see was the guard captain, howling in pain as he crumpled to the ground.

They were all warriors, soldiers, trained to be stalwart in the face of violence, but they were still men, and men like that were so easy to scare. All you'd needed was a good angle. The guard captain had pinned you against the wall, his knees pressing your legs so you couldn't kick. You squirmed a minimal amount, mostly out of instinct. But you held his gaze.

You had purposefully put one hand behind your back, and he assumed it was stuck, but you are stronger than that. You pulled a dagger from your belt and swept it downward, and you never broke – you held eye contact.

His underlings had been cheering. In this level of the prison, they never saw women – if you hadn't publicly castrated the guard captain, you never would have made it to Avernum.

As it was, they avoided you.

You can't see, but you stare out into the darkness anyway, as if it will eventually light up. As if the sun will rise and you will breathe clean air into your lungs. Perhaps when you open your eyes you will see stars and trees.

Stars and trees and the sun.

You don't know what you want.

You don't want to go back, you don't want to be here. You don't want to stand still and you don't want to move – you don't want to forgive, but you can't find it in your heart to forget.

Do you even want to go back?

You don't even know if you want to live, let alone what you want to do with this life, should you choose to live it.

And how could you know if you wanted to live, if you can't even decide if you want to remain standing, or sit, or move forward?

There are others, with you – in the dark you see something in their eyes. Something that drives them out or up or forward. All you can do is stare blankly back at them. You have no idea what you want.

You move forward, because they do. You remain close to the front because you have a blade. It is instinct. It is practical. You never sheath your weapon.

There is a sharp drop, maybe two feet, that you don't see. You shout, and your arms flail for balance. You are falling, and your knife is staring at you.

There are hands on you. Six of them. They help you stand, and you stare at the knife on the ground with wide eyes, trying to remember how to breathe. Five of the hands let go, but one remains clamped on your fighting arm arm. You feel pain, suddenly, and blood beneath the rough hands. You cry out and look to the person beside you, and you see a faint, pale blue light, face hidden in a cowl, lips moving as he heals you.

You turn around wildly, but his grip is iron and keeps you steady. You look down and you see the other two, exploring ahead, conversing. They have a way of people who can find laughter in anything.

And for the first time, you see them.

Zephyr, hardly a boy, still lanky, with a light voice and big eyes. His shoulders are strong, the build of a bowman. He is young, but he knows who he is. He is bright like the sun, blond hair and innocence.

Liam stands beside him, her hair dark as night, her blue eyes are deep and hardened, but she has a wicked smile like she's unafraid of the world. She laughs like starlight.

You look again at the man beside you, and it's only because of the light from his spell that you can see his face beneath the cowl – a drawn brow, perhaps brown hair? The light is dimming, and all you can remember of him is concentration and a fire in his eyes.

Brown – like the tough bark of a tree, trees that steadily climb upward. Trees with green leaves.

The sun breaking through the leaves of trees, the north star in the daytime sky….

It occurs to you that you've never seen the ocean.


End file.
